Relativity of Simultaneity
by Sparrow978
Summary: AU set 20 years in the future. Will be H/D *slash. Voldemort's dead, the Death Eaters are scattered, and everything is just peachy. Well, maybe not. Chap 3 is up.
1. Default Chapter

Title: Relativity of Simultaneity   
Author: Sparrow  
Rating: R (for language, mostly)   
Pairing: H/D   
Disclaimer: Draco, Harry, and anyone else who seems familiar belongs to J.K. Rowling and various other entities who are not me. I'm only taking them out to play.  
Feedback: Constructive criticism welcomed. Oh, who am I kidding. Just review! Please! Don't make me beg...  
A/N : I think I ate a bad cupcake. :(  
A/N 2: No, you're not supposed to understand the title. It will be explained in full later on in the story. I wanted an older D & H...but I didn't want to think up some futuristic world. So the world is the same...they're just older in it. I'm going to fall back on that AU' to defend any oddities. I do believe that's going to be the main one though.  
Summary: AU set 20 years after Harry & Co graduate Hogwarts. Will eventually be H/D *slash. _  
  
_

Chapter 1  
In which we get our bearings, loose them again, and meet an old acquaintance.  
  
  


...and so you see, this proposition will be of great benefit to both companies, and give us the needed edge against Dean and Dryfus Corp. With your permission sir, I can have the necessary forms on their way by two this afternoon. The pinch-faced little sub manager, speech over, stepped back and watched Draco Malfoy expectantly. He'd taken casual dress' a bit too seriously and was wearing a sport coat in a horrible shade of blue that looked to Draco like the shell of some exotic jungle beetle. Draco nodded in a way he hoped looked thoughtful, and tried to remember just what it was he was supposed to say yes to. He'd started to nod off somewhere between the door closing behind the man as he came in and hello sir'. Then the sport coat had caught his attention. Something about a merger. He repressed a sigh. Business was not his forte. He'd be more comfortable in an apron on Iron Chef' then in a board meeting, and his food skills, both magical and otherwise, began and ended with opening the menu at a restaurant. The annoying little underling was still standing in front of his chair, laptop tucked under his arm and staring at Draco. He guessed this was where he was supposed to say something. Instead, he waved the man off and nodded. He'd do better given free rein then with any instructions anyway.  
  
He sighed as soon as he heard the door close, and got up to stand by the west window, loosening his tie as he did so. Whoever had first built this place had made one entire side nothing but black mirrored windows. It had made for impressive views, both inside and out, but the downside of the design had become glaringly clear during the last earthquake. The windows had broken. _All_ the windows. Draco had opted to have it repaired in a more conservative fashion, with more faux marble and less real window space. Not as impressive, but much less likely to make him cry out for Mommy and find Jesus during an earthquake. He had also rearranged things so that his desk was no longer directly in front of the window. He looked up as his door swung open and his secretary stepped in. Yet another exotic beetle look-alike, this time done up in shades of green. Draco often wondered if he was the only person in the company with any fashion sense.  
  
Fed-ex guy dropped this off. She tossed a manilla envelope at him and walked out without another word. Draco leaned over to pick it up off his desk, curiosity piqued. It was addressed to Mr. Malfoy, at the Lucidity main office. That was odd in of itself. He kept his business and personal correspondence strictly separated, and any business dealings would have either come through middle management or been addressed to Draco Malfoy CEO. A single sheet of white paper fell out and floated down to his desk when he ripped the tab open on the envelope.   
  
Out of the night that covers me,  
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be  
For my unconquerable soul.  
  
100000   
  
What the fuck is this? He flipped it over and back again, and looked back over the envelope. Nothing that would give him a clue as to who'd sent it. Several people immediately popped into his office. None of who, he duly noted, were security. He wondered if a gunshot would wake the guard up, or if it would take a jet hitting the building. The current office pool was leaning towards the jet.  
  
Something wrong sir? several voices asked at once.   
_  
_Give this, he thrust the letter at the closest intern, to security and tell them to check it out. Here, take this too, he held out the envelope. I'm going home.  
  
Will you need an escort to your car sir?  
  
No. Just take care of the letter.  
  
  


++  
  


It never rains in Southern California, or at least that's what the song says. He supposed it depended somewhat on your definition of raining. Back home, this was a drizzle. To watch the people here, you'd think they were braving a blizzard. A car took the corner too tight and too fast, spraying water up on to the walkway. The pedestrian traffic dodged right and left, inevitably putting themselves farther into harm's way in their efforts to avoid a soaking. Words were exchanged as the more volatile among the crowd to sought to place blame, soothing injured pride with yet more ruffled feathers.  
  
He watched the scene before him with quiet amusement from the dry haven of a café overhang. It had already been played out since he had first arrived for his morning coffee, an endless loop of impatience driven carelessness that no doubt would continue on as long as the rain did. Even those used to damp misery soared in spirit under blue skies and sun. He was not immune to the effect either. It took considerable willpower to not glance at his watch every few moments, as though the intensity of his gaze could inspire the bit of Muggle mechanical ingenuity to move heaven and earth so that time could pass at a pace that was better suited his schedule.  
  
Another car went by, but not the one he was interested in. Shadows were beginning to disappear from under the weak cloud covered sun. Soon this café would be flooded with the workers from the nearby offices come for lunch. He needed to be gone before that, but his job was as of yet left unfinished. A silver sedan pulled up to the entrance of the gray brick building across the street, and the man's interest was caught. This was possibly the one he was looking for. He caught the waiter's eye with a nod of his head, and dropped the required amount of money down next to his cup. The newspaper was tucked under his arm as he stepped onto the causeway. The crowd caught him much as the current snags driftwood, and he melded seamlessly into it. Just another man in a suit among a hundred others. The driver of the sedan got out to open the door for his passenger. Out stepped an impeccably dressed business man. Armani suit, every thread in perfect order, blonde styled in the latest fashion, Italian leather briefcase held firmly in a manicured grip. Every nuance screamed money, and the crowd parted for him as through sensing the power within him. But then again, in this place, money _was_ power.  
  
He lost sight of his quarry for a moment, regaining it a second later when the natural ebb and flow of the people around him opened up to provide another vantage point. The blonde man was gone, the driver pulling back into traffic. Crowds hid you well, but sometimes that could go both ways. It was not more then a momentary setback. Now that he knew his target was here, he knew exactly where he would run to. He used a break in the crowd to disappear down a side alley. This part of the city was a curious mix of old and new, where history merged with the palaces of the modern business royalty. The alley he was in served as a good example. To his left, a turn of the century brick building. To his right, gleaming steel and glass, the pet project of the architect was who currently basking in his fifteen minutes of fame.  
  
It's me. The phone they'd given him was so small as to almost appear a joke. He sometimes wondered how it was possible for the other person to hear him, when the entire phone barely extended past his ear. Muggles were clever, far more so then anyone was willing to give them credit for. Some day the wizarding community was going to have to face that fact, and he doubted it would be well taken on any account.  
  
Did you see him? The voice came through harried. This was a high-stakes game he was playing, and they all had more to lose then they could afford. So much had been placed on his shoulders.   
  
Yes. Where you said, but four hours late. I'd like to know where he was in between there and here.   
  
I imagined he would be off a bit. Don't worry, we have a solid explanation for it.  
  
He snorted. Explanations and answers are not always one and the same.  
  
Patience. You do know what that word means?  
  
I'm not going to answer that. Call at the same time?  
  
Yes. Now cheer up. We'll get him. The line went dead, and he folded up the tiny phone and slipped it back into his pocket. Of course they would get the one they wanted, of that he had no doubt. It was what was going to come after that had him worried.  


++  
  


Lucidity Incorporated, a play on Lucius Malfoy's name, occupied the top twelve floors of a stylish downtown Los Angeles high rise. Draco had looked the word up in the dictionary once out of curiosity. It meant precision of thought, which he found quite fitting. For most people, the business would represent the pinnacle of success, for Draco, it served as a reminder of what he'd lost. The Malfoys had not fared well after the final battle with Voldemort. His father had not been as clever as he fancied himself by half, and the trail from Voldemort to Malfoy Manor was so clear that even the Ministry of Magic, as inept as they were, could follow it. The situation had turned ugly in a remarkably short time, and there simply hadn't been any opportunity to implement the escape plans. Narcissa had killed herself, the more far flung relatives had distanced themselves as much as possible, and Draco had fallen back on one of his father's more radical back-up plans in a last ditch effort to avoid Azkaban. Go where no one would ever expect to find you, then hide in plain sight. Perhaps one of the only good ideas his father had ever come up with. It had saved his life and his freedom, but he sometimes wondered about the cost.  
  
He had money, and all it brought with it. A home that was as much a palace as Malfoy Manor had been. His closet was filled with the latest designer clothes. The Muggle financial advisory company his father had set up had surpassed everyone's expectations. Draco was doing his best to insure things continued that way, by staying as uninvolved as he possibly could. More of a figure head than anything else. There was a time when he would have wanted to be in charge and micromanage down to the last breath, but the years had managed to knock some semblance of intelligence into him. Let the people who know what to do, do it. That policy still entailed more effort on his part then he was comfortable with. His phone rang suddenly, startling him as he got ready to leave. He fished it out of his jacket pocket.  
  
  
  
Draaaaco. You said you'd be _home _ by now. The guests are arriving. Without realizing what he was doing, he shifted the phone father away from his ear, as though to distance himself.  
  
I'm sorry Marie. Something came up, and they needed my OK. I'll be leaving in ten minutes. That means I'll be home by..., he glanced at the wall clock. It was a quarter to two, and his house was twenty miles away. Figuring in traffic time, He could almost hear the pout in her voice before she spoke.  
  
I hate it when you do this to me. You _always_ get hung up at work when I have plans made.  
  
I'm sorry. No, he wasn't, but it was useless saying anything. Conversations more complex then Dick and Jane went up the hill' went completely over Marie's head. He'd gone for a trophy wife, a skinny actress quality blond bombshell to hang off his arm and impress prospective business partners. Marie was gorgeous, nothing could take away from her. She was also as intelligent as the carpet he was standing on. His loathing for her had grown to the point where he'd do almost anything to avoid going home, but hell would freeze solid before he let her walk out of a divorce with half of his money. She did serve her purpose well enough, and knew enough to realize she had it good. They had an arrangement of sorts worked out to their own mutual benefit. He didn't question why the ex-GQ model gardner was making nearly five thousand a month and had keys to the guesthouse, and Marie stayed quiet when he came stumbling home in the early morning smelling of pot and strange cologne.  
  
Fine. Just get here, she snapped. She took great delight in hosting little parties with LA's elite, grown-up versions of a childhood tea party. Draco tended to throw her plans off balance without any conscience effort. He considered this to be one of his greatest innate talents.  
  
I'm coming. The line went dead, and he snapped the phone shut. He stared at it for a moment, then sent it flying into the waste bin. Sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered if Azkaban was any worse then the prison he'd made for himself.  
  
LA held limited appeal for him. It was as close to being pure Muggle as any city it's size could claim, and America in general wasn't as friendly to wizarding folk as it could be. The Ministry of Magic here, or more properly, the Bureau of Supernatural Phenomena and Magical Affairs, was of the opinion that one could do whatever the hell they felt like as long as it didn't make the Muggle newspaper headlines. The United States had avoided the original International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy of 1692 by virtue of not yet existing, and after that they weren't overly keen on taking orders from across the pond for obvious reasons.   
  
The Bureau's liberal policy allowed for much more personal freedom then was possible in any of the European countries, and made the place a haven for those seeking to simply disappear off of the wizarding communities' radar. Perhaps those in charge weren't worried because they sensed that magic would never really play a large part in things over here. It was too Muggle. Computer chips and silicone made this world go around, and true magic couldn't always compare with it's big screen counterpart. Besides, the air was solid enough to see clearly. No matter what kind of spin you put on things, Draco knew that couldn't be good. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed home.   
  
He was waved through the checkpoint in the underground parking garage, as always. Draco was a distinct enough presence that enough those members of the company who saw him rarely remembered him, unlike many of the other board members. He fished out his car keys, sighing with relief as he slid behind the wheel of his black Jaguar. He loved his car. All sleek and black and powerful, much like the jungle cat it was named for. The car had been his present to himself for his thirty-fifth birthday. On his thirty-sixth, he'd finally gotten off his ass long enough to go down to DMV and get personalized plates for it. IBTRTNU. He thought the message was clear, I'm Better Then You, but so only one other person had gotten the message that he knew of, and he wasn't sure if Marie counted. His only other concession to personalization was the silver What Would Machiavelli Do? cut out decal centered high on the tinted back window. All in all, it was a very Draco-like machine.  


++  


  
It was well past the witching hour when the last of the guests staggered out, thoroughly sloshed on ridiculously expensive wine and caviar. One would think that something as disgusting as fish eggs would be more affordable, like pigs feet, but trust muggles to run completely contrary to the path of common sense. Muggle parties tied in well with Draco's concept of what hell must be like, and he'd only lasted through introductions before claiming a migraine and retreating to the relative sanctuary of his office. Migraines, he had found, were quite possibly the most useful medical affliction one could have. They could end parties and business meetings with one fell stroke, and no one would question whether you were lying. Which Draco most certainly was. He'd never had so much as a tension headache his entire life. But it hadn't taken him long to perfect the symptoms. Squint your eyes, wince at bright light. Hold a hand to your head, and apologize profusely while backing out the door. Presto. Instant freedom.  
  
His office was the only room in the house that was truly his. The ink hadn't even been dry on his marriage certificate before Marie, five-hundred dollar an hour interior designer in tow, had attacked the house with all the fury of the Allied forces storming Normandy. Draco had saved his only refuge by placing himself in front of the door and refusing to budge, along with a few well placed kicks. Any inhibitions he might have had about fighting a woman had quickly disappeared within the first month of marriage. He liked to think of that as life lesson one. Not that he approved of domestic abuse, but there were only so many options available when you had a crazy woman coming at you with a frying pan. Life lesson two was never let the valium run out', which tied in closely with the first.  
  
Instead of the stark black and white theme that pervaded the bed and living rooms, Draco's office was designed to look like an old hunting lodge, done up in all green and brown wood tones that made it seem cozy and warm. It served the dual purpose of relaxing him and driving Marie absolutely insane, as it was most certainly out of style. She wasn't happy unless the house looked like a Vogue photo shoot. Draco was sprawled out on a green leather recliner opposite the wide screen telly, laptop, phone and well stocked mini-fridge within easy reach. His suit had been traded in for a shabby old blue chenille robe that had finally, after twelve years of wear, reached the point of nearly divine softness. He'd put in his DVD of X-Files season four, and was happily munching away on Cracker Jacks and admiring Agent Mulder's assets.  
  
At first he dismissed the tapping noise. After it continued unabated for several minutes, he begrudgingly gave it his full attention. He switched the TV off to hear better, and frowned once he located the source. Who would be tapping on his window at three in the morning? Muttering under his breath, he grabbed a putter out of his golf bag and crept over to investigate. The night was pitch black, without even a sliver of a moon to soften the darkness. The lamp behind him cast enough glow however, to outline the small calico cat sitting among the Snapping Dragons and Foxglove on the window planter. It blinked wide green eyes at him slowly, and meowed with what seemed to be great dignity. Marie was deathly allergic to cats. She'd once claimed a single hair anywhere in the house would be enough to send her to the hospital. Then again, she'd also claimed she was distantly related to Alec Baldwin. On the off chance that she was telling the truth, he opened the window and jimmied the screen loose enough to give the cat room to squeeze through.  
  
Here puss-puss. Want inside? he cooed at it, wiggling his fingers as he'd once seen his secretary do to coax a stray close. The cat seemed to pause and give the situation consideration, then slipped through into the room. Draco put the window and putter back the way they'd been, and turned to study his latest acquisition. It had taken up his place on the recliner. The cat looked well-fed with a shiny coat, but he doubted it would turn up it's nose at food. Or would that be her nose? He thought he remembered something about calico cats always being female. The cat watched him impassively as he rummaged around in the mini-fridge for the leftover smoked salmon spread he was certain was in there. He found the packet behind the last can of Coors, and offered some to the cat on a folded up post-it note.  
  
The cat made no move to eat though, and just continued to stare at him. She was marked much like the other calicos he'd seen, except for funny brown goggle-shapes encircling her eyes. It reminded him of the way Mrs. McGonagall had looked in her animagus form back at Hogwarts.  
  
Not hungry? Guess not. Can't say I blame you. I didn't want much of it either. Here now, give me back my chair. He shushed it off the recliner, and it hopped nimbly onto the floor. It turned to sit directly in front of his chair, and fixed it's stare onto him again. The cat was beginning to be just a tad unnerving.  
  
What exactly is so damn interesting? he asked it.  
  
You are, the cat answered, although it wasn't really a cat anymore. The form had seemed to liquefy, Terminator-style, then reform as it grew larger. The cat was now a man, a medium sized green-eyed one with brown horn shell glasses that matched where cat's goggles had been. The stare had remained the same throughout the change. Draco stared back, too stunned to react. He finally gathered his senses somewhat, tried to think of something witty to say, failed, and settled for the first thing that came to mind.  
  
I thought calico cats were always female?  
  
The man smiled. Normally they are. But then when have you ever known me to be normal?  
  
Not often Potter. Not very bloody often at all.  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

See disclaimer in part one  
A/N- Arrg. I *hate* posting my work. As soon as I hit the button to finalize it, I immediately notice at least a dozen slip-ups, inventive grammar, and awkward sentences, or I'll think of some particular word or phrase that would have worked much better then what I used. I _have_ gone through and fixed some of the more obvious stuff. I needed to have Muggle' capitalized for instance, and italicize the spells. I'm sure I'll find more later.  
  
  


Chapter 2  
In which some things are made clearer, and some things aren't.  
++  
  


Draco hadn't had very many surprises as he aged. Watching his father as he grew up had given him a clear idea of what he could expect as the years went by, and that had held true for the most part. His hair had yet to show any gray, and his eyes were still sharp, although he did keep a pair of nonprescription glasses handy for reading extra fine print. A light tan provided for contrast against his silvery blond hair, and his face had softened somewhat with age. He held a gym membership, and watched what he ate to a certain point. While the only six-pack he could lay claim to was the one in his mini-fridge, he was in better shape then most people he knew. Muggle health care was most certainly not up to his standards, and he did his best to avoid ever having to depend on the butchers that passed for doctors here. He had no dearth of willing partners for late night escapades, and had been called attractive by people objective enough to be taken seriously.  
  
If time had been friendly to him, it had most certainly adored Harry Potter. The wild black hair was a touch longer then he'd remembered, the shoulders a bit broader on what was still a lean frame. He could easily pass for his late twenties, thirty if an observer was being unkind. He wore charcoal gray Dockers and a white polo, and would have fit in perfectly at the party earlier. Draco felt exposed and vulnerable barefoot in his robe and boxers, with his wand packed away only God knows where. It had been years since he'd even set eyes on the thing. Magic and pretending to be Muggle tended to not mix well, no matter how handy you were at Memory and Disillusionment Charms. He couldn't begin to guess at Potter's reason for being here, although he doubted it bode well for him.  
  
You're different, Potter said after a moment, cocking his head to side as an owl might while studying a particularly tasty looking rabbit.  
  
Well, yes. Twenty years will do that to a person. I suppose you're taking me back? He was proud of how level his voice stayed. _A Malfoy never lets his thoughts show_. How many times had his father drilled that into him? A hundred? A thousand? Fat lot of good it had done him.  
  
Not quite. May I? Potter gestured to the ottoman opposite Draco, then settled himself down smoothly, the grace of that cat still present in his human form. He was, Draco noted, quite attractive. He'd never appreciated that before. Of course, the last time they'd met, his tastes hadn't yet begun to run that direction. The situation, Potter continued, has become somewhat complex since you left. The Ministry seems content to place the blame for everything bad that's happened since Voldemort on your shoulders, mostly because you aren't around refute the accusations. Makes their lives easier. Though they did put considerable effort into looking for you the first few years. I even helped a bit.  
  
Really? And where did you think I was? He truly was curious.  
  
Potter grinned. Right here, he gestured at the room they were in. Or rather, close to it. A Malfoy living as a Muggle was so preposterous an idea that the Ministry refused to even consider it. Makes for the perfect hiding place. To be honest, even I wouldn't have found you if I hadn't caught sight of your name in a Muggle business magazine.  
  
Draco was confused. This wasn't playing out how he had expected. You said they looked for me _at first_. Why are you here now?  
  
Because I want to be. And that's all you need to know.  
  
That's not very sporting of you Potter, he drawled, gazing at the man with a single eyebrow quirked up in question.  
  
Sorry Draco, Harry shook his head. You get your secrets, and I get mine. That's how the game is played.  
  
Fine. You're here. What now?  
  
I would like your help. _Well, that certainly came out of left field_, Draco thought glumly. He fixed Harry with a wary eye.  
  
With _what_? What the hell is going on that you would hunt me down and come to America to get me?   
  
Nothing lethal, and yes, I know exactly what you're thinking. I wouldn't trust myself if I was in your place. There's been a string of murders in and around London. The Muggle police force feels that they're unrelated acts of violence, and the Ministry doesn't see any magic involved.  
  
So what's got your hackles up then? And I'm still not seeing why this involves me.  
  
Harry frowned as he thought, crossing his legs and leaning as far back as the ottoman would allow. Quite some time passed, and Draco began to wonder what the hell was going on, but finally Harry spoke.  
  
I'm not sure, on either count.  
  
Oh _that's_ bloody helpful, he snapped, throwing his hands up. _More_ then worth turning yourself into a stray and stalking me. California does have some very nice anti-stalker laws you know, and the Magic Bureau would be too damn lazy to come fix things if I did decide to have your arse tossed in jail. Talk! He had leaned closer to Harry with every word, until the other man was forced to duck back to avoid him. He almost succeeded in getting Harry to topple backwards off the ottoman, but alas, he saved himself at the last moment.   
  
Are you quite through? Harry asked. Draco was pleased to note the strain in his voice. He'd shaken him up a little, at least. He nodded, motioning for Harry to continue. The murders have all been in places where fights took place between the Death Eaters and Aurors during the final battle. Only in spots where at least one person died in the fight. The victims all bear resemblance to those killed originally.  
  
I don't see what the point would be. Unless the murderer is just a complete raving nutter. Though I would think the wizarding angle would be obvious.  
  
Always a possibility, and you should know better then most that the Ministry couldn't find it's way out of a blind alley.   
  
What else? he asked.  
  
What makes you think there is anything else?  
  
Oh come on Potter. What you've given me so far isn't worth a trip across the back lawn. What else is going on?  
  
I take what I said earlier back. You haven't changed at all.  
  
  
  
Harry sighed, and pulled a small square of tattered notebook paper out of his pants pocket. The victims all had this carved into their foreheads.  
  
Draco mummered, reaching out to get the paper. That'd really ruin your day. The back of the paper was smudged with black, as though it'd been set on the asphalt while the drawing was done. The pencil lines were thick and unsteady, but the words were clear. I am become death, shatterer of worlds.' Robert Oppenheimer.  
  
Harry was clearly startled. _Probably expects me to confess to it now,_ Draco thought with some amusement.  
  
I am become death. That's a quote from Robert Oppenheimer. I believe he had something to do with the first atomic bomb. Interesting choice for making a statement in a forehead though. How'd he make it all fit?  
  
It's a Muggle thing then? How did you know that?  
  
Draco shrugged. I watch Jeopardy now and then. Amazing what you pick up. You weren't expecting that, were you?  
  
No. Not at all, Harry said, clearly shaken. I think we need to talk again.  
  
Again? You're leaving now?  
  
I'll come the same way I did tonight. I'm not sure when...probably within the week though.  
  
Doorbell works, you know. Front door swings open and everything. It's really quite ingenious. Harry had already got up and headed for the window. He slid it open, fixing the screen the same way Draco had done earlier, then paused.  
  
Be careful. I'm not sure what's going on, but it's not good. Oh, and _nice _boxers. With that last remark he blurred and shifted into the calico cat once again, and leapt into the night. Draco stared at the open window for a second, then glanced down at himself. He happened to _like_ Pooh, thank you very much. He sighed, settled down to finish watching the X-Files, then thought better of it and got up to go in search of his wand. He had a feeling it was time to put a little magic back into his life.  
  
The weekend passed without incident, and Monday and Tuesday rolled by with no more then the usual chaos. By Wednesday Draco was starting to wonder if the smog was finally starting to affect his brain, and on Thursday he'd made strides towards convincing himself that bad beer or food poisoning had caused hallucinations. Technically he'd been off of work for two hours now, but surfing the internet from his office at Lucidity was always preferable to time spent at home. Marie had scheduled an in-home Botox clinic for the afternoon, and a dozen ditzy wrinkled blondes packed into the living room was more then any sane man could be expected to cope with without going up on murder charges afterwards.  
  
He'd started out by checking the stock prices as he always did, but found himself listing towards the London newspapers for information on the murders Harry had talked about. He'd found a small blurb from a month ago on a double murder outside a private airstrip, but nothing else. That surprised him. Had it happened in America, the news media would have been on it like flies on shit, no doubt claiming it as the work of a satanic cult, Aliens, Elvis, or perhaps all three working together. He glanced up from the web page as someone rapped on his door.   
  
It was a repeat of the day before. Manilla envelope delivered by Fed-Ex, no identifying marks. No one saw or heard anything unusual.  
  
In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeonings of chance  
My head is bloody, but unbowed.  
  
090000  
  
He had his secretary go after the security guard this time.  
  
he asked, once the man had been dragged into his office still half-asleep, the fuck is going on? Did you check out the letter from yesterday?  
  
There was nothing outstanding Mr. Malfoy. I believe the home office is checking with Fed-Ex, but from what I've heard back there's nothing on that end, he said, yawning. Draco itched to leap over the desk and throttle the life out of him.   
  
So you have nothing, he said. It was a statement, not a question, but the guard answered anyway.  
  
We think it's a poem of some sort.  
  
No _shit._ Do you think could actually do something _besides_ scratch your ass and sleep on the job for the next few days, or am I asking too much? The man's face darkened, and he worked his jaw for a moment, but kept his retort down to a terse nod. Wonderful. Here, he snapped, shoving the letter at the guard. Take this, and investigate it. Just like your business card says. Corporate Security and _Investigation_ Services. Still with me? The man nodded. Excellent. Now get the hell out of my office.   
He turned away abruptly and walked over to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He allowed himself a slight sigh when he heard the door close. _Idiots_. Corporate stalking were funny as hell when they were happening to someone else. The humor was evaporating quickly now that he was the center of attention. He was sure it was some form of stalking, just a crazy Muggle. Perhaps one of those eco-activists. Lucidity did have quite a few accounts with oil and power companies. In any case, he was sure it was nothing to be overly worried about. Just another minor annoyance.  


  
++  
  


Have you discovered anything else? The man asked, huddled in the corner booth of a run down Denny's. He kept the cell phone pressed close to his ear, fighting to hear over the static. He could never understand how you could get perfect reception in one spot, then walk three feet forwards and loose it.  
  
We think we've got a lead on who the top agent is. We still need time to confirm it though. Have you spotted the target again?  
  
Yes, he's staying close to his schedule. He smiled, and waved off the waitress who had come over to refill his coffee. Don't you think we need to tell you-know-who what's going on? It's going to be his ass on the line if something goes wrong.  
  
Not yet. Soon, but not yet. Do keep an eye on things though. The letters have me worried.  
  
It could just be a Muggle stalker, he offered, but there was disbelief in his voice.  
  
Possible, but quite a coincidence. I don't want to rule anything out though.  
  
Agreed. Call as usual?  
  
As always. He flipped the phone shut as the line went dead, and took a sip of his now cool coffee. Not that it had been very hot to begin with. Other then the lovely cockroach and peeling wallpaper ambiance of the place, he'd chosen the restaurant because it gave him a clear view of his target, who was currently being a very naughty boy. Even through the hand print smeared window he could clearly see the blonde head bent over the hood of the rusted old VW Bug, huddled together with four others studying a book the last man to arrive had brought. Of the four, one was supposed to be dead, one should have been in Azkaban, and the other two were unknowns, at least to the Ministry. He would have bet his life and his favorite armchair that they were also Death Eaters.  
  
They were up to no good, he knew that, it was just a matter of discerning exactly what sort of trouble was brewing. There was an angry gesture, the book slammed closed. One of the unknowns, a unusually tall gray-haired man, had apparently raised the ire of the others. They turned against him, the blonde producing a wand from somewhere inside his designer coat. He frowned. There didn't seem to be any Muggles paying attention to the exchange, but that was certainly a risky move. The argument continued for a few minutes, before he abruptly dropped his coffee, not even noticing when the lukewarm liquid hit his lap. The gray-haired man was down on the ground, writhing and tearing at his hair. The blonde stood over him, smirking, while the other two stood back casting uncertain glances at each other. Cruciatus Curse. That it had been used bothered him greatly. In some ways, willingness to cause pain was worse then causing a quick death, and it signaled a shift in attitude. The stakes had been raised yet higher.  
He itched to do something, but held himself back. He couldn't endanger the mission for the sake of a single life, especially one that had thrown his lot in with this sort of scum.  
  
He looked up, startled. He had let himself get too absorbed in the scene, and he mentally berated himself. The waitress was standing over the table, gesturing at his lap. Your coffee?  
  
Huh? Oh! He set the cup back on the table, and busied himself dabbing the mess up as best he could with napkins. God, If I was any clumsier! And it got on the booth..I am _so_ sorry, he continued to babble on while still trying to keep the target in view out of the corner of his eye, but it looked like they'd moved to the far side of the Bug, and he could only see three heads.   
  
It took him a few minutes to get rid of the waitress, sending her after more napkins. He used the opportunity to slip out, throwing a twenty at the startled waiter managing the register and jogging around to the back of the building. The Denny's lay just off of the freeway, directly across the street from the used car lot where his target was . He was taking a route that would take him under the freeway, across the street a block down, then up behind the car lot, ideally, without ever being spotted. He doubted he'd be recognized, but better safe then sorry. He put some effort into his jogging, only slowing down when he was in view of the main street so as to not arouse suspicions. A black man who looked like he was running from something tended to get people's attention, especially in this part of town.  
  
The chain link fence surrounding the back of the car lot was locked, but it was somewhat of a moot point since the fence was falling down. He stepped easily over one of the missing sections, and slipped in behind a three wheeled Chevy. This was more then slightly dangerous, and against orders, but he had to find out more about what the target was planning. He could tell that there were voices nearby, but he was just far enough away that they blended together into an incomprehensible babble. Carefully, he started working his way closer, using the cars that were scattered here and there as cover.  
  
He'd gone about twenty feet when the voices had fallen silent, and he wondered if perhaps they had left. Then they picked back up. Not as loud though, as if someone was missing. The adrenaline had started to run as soon as he'd began his little adventure, and he was practically wired now. He fancied he could feel his heart thumping against the inner wall of his chest, and his senses seemed unusually sharp. He thought of himself as the leopard hidden in the shadows, ready to pounce upon the unwary gazelle, a twentieth century warrior for the light. He'd spent the first fifteen years of this job behind a desk listening to boring people moan and complain, and another six being used as a glorified errand boy. His first real assignment, the first chance to really make a difference in the world, had found him chasing werewolves through the Scottish Highlands.   
  
He'd come damn close to getting killed on that trip, and even closer to joining the fur of the month club. He hadn't though, and like the old adage says, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. One of the first and most important lessons he'd learned in Scotland was to never focus all your attention on a single person or group. Pay attention to _all _your surroundings. Though he seemed for all intents and purposes to be focused entirely on listening to the two Death-Eaters talk, he was still able to catch the sound of soft footsteps on pavement, and throw himself into a roll that carried him clear of where the Avada Kedavra struck. He was on his feet with wand in hand before it dawned on the other man that the killing curse had missed it's mark.   
  
_Accio_ _wand! _ he shouted, grabbing the object as it flew to him. He leveled his wand at the blonde's chest. _Stupefy! _ The man staggered back, momentarily stopped. He could hear the other two men approaching, and assumed the last one was dead by now. Three against one was still two too many, wandless or not, and he swore. He wasn't a good enough duelist to risk a real fight against other wizards. Werewolves, vampires, and creatures with no wands, yes. Wizards, no. Another opportunity gone to hell. he snarled, meeting stormy gray eyes with his own. There was a promise of violence in that gaze, knowledge that he'd kill just as easily bare handed as with his wand. It made him shiver, to glimpse such madness held in check with only the finest of threads. He snapped the wand in half and dropped it, the two remaining men arriving just in time to see him Disapparate from view.  
  
Fuck it! he screamed once the stained beige walls of his motel room came into view. He threw his jacket at the wall as hard as he could, following up with an empty luggage bag when the jacket failed to make a satisfying enough thump. The coffee stained jeans quickly followed, and he stomped off to the tiny bathroom still cussing under his breath. He wasn't up to waiting the usual forty minutes it took the water to heat up, and helped things with a touch of magic. He moaned once the hot water hit him, throwing his head back and letting it run down his face. For what he paid a night he was lucky to have a shower at all, but he still thought longingly of the massaging shower heads he'd had access to the last time he'd stayed in a nice Muggle hotel.  
  
In less then twenty seconds he'd managed to ruin five years of work. Now that Lucius knew someone was on to him he'd go underground, and it was going to be nearly impossible to find him again. How could he do something so incredibly _stupid _? He stayed in the shower only long enough to scrub away the smell of stale coffee, and went in search of his cell phone with a tattered towel wrapped around his waist and his dreadlocks gathered in a loose ponytail. Somehow, the phone hadn't broken when he'd tossed the jacket, and he quickly dialed a familiar number.  
  
Main office, Ministry of Magic. Mrs. Weasley speaking. How may I help you?  
  
Why do you bother doing the spiel mione? Everyone knows you're the only person in the Ministry who has a telephone. He switched the phone from his right to left ear, propping it up with his shoulder while he began to rummage through his luggage for a clean set of clothes.   
  
The same reason you insist on using one instead of just contacting me by owl or through fire. Besides Lee, I think Percy finally broke down and got one. What's wrong? You usually don't call back this quickly.   
  
The smog would probably kill an owl. he joked, then sobered up. I fucked up mione. I fucked up _bad._ He laid the situation out uninterrupted. Hermione Weasley had a reputation of being a bitch that wasn't all that undeserved, but Lee Jordan had always found her to be fair and willing to listen a man out. That he was her husband's brothers' best friend probably didn't hurt things any. She laid out in no uncertain terms what a bloody fool he was, but then they got down to the business of fixing what had gone wrong.  
  


++  



	3. Chapter 3

See disclaimer in part one  
A/N: Thank you to those you reviewed. :) It's hard to justify putting all this time into writing when everyone seems indifferent, and getting reviews gives me a major happy. If you like it, please let me know!  


  
  
  
  
Chapter 3  
In which questions are answered, and more are raised.  
  
++  
  


Traffic was worse then usual, a bus versus pedestrian accident on the corner between the Lucidity Offices and the freeway entrance turning the street into a parking lot. With the air and radio on full blast and a lattè in hand, Draco was well equipped to handle the delay calmly. He tapped the leather covered steering wheel in time to the music, eyeing the police activity going on to his right with the same casual disinterest as everyone else. Not that there was much to be seen anyway. The stain on the asphalt could just as easily be leaked oil from the bus as blood, and the police seemed to be fully occupied with standing around and socializing.  
  
Between the radio and casting glances to the right, he was surprised enough to nearly drop his drink when someone tapped on his left window. _Locked? Radio off! Police? Car jack? _flashed through his mind in quick succession, and he turned wild eyed to the driver's side window after punching the power off on the radio.  
  
_Lee Jordan?!_ he couldn't do much more then gape. If Harry had been a surprise, then this was heart failure.  
  
Lee smiled at him, and gestured towards the door, pantomiming walking around and getting in. Draco nodded, hitting the lock for the passenger door. If Jordan already knew where he was, there was no reason to be uncivil. Things would play out as they wished, and the whole matter was out of his hands. Lee quickly slipped around the front of the car and slid in, sighing with relief when he felt the cool blast of the air coming from the vents. LA might not be hot by Inland Empire standards, but when a person got used to it always being in the high seventies, ninety was a killer. Especially with the weather being so damn strange. It wasn't more then a few days ago that it had been raining.  
The car ahead rolled forward another forty feet, the driver of the blue Accord behind him hitting his horn when Draco didn't immediately move. He waited until Lee was buckled in and settled before rolling the window down far enough to flash the official company loyalty salute at the offending driver.  
  
Nice car. Lee was running his hands over the leather seat, and eyeing the sound system with interest. Sub woofers?  
  
Of course. Is there a reason for this, or did you just want to admire the car? Draco drawled, his annoyance clear.  
  
Lee whistled. Testy little bastard, aren't we? Can't an old friend just drop by?  
  
he snapped.   
  
I'd think you would be more appreciative. What I'm about to tell you may save your life.  
  
That's what the Jehovah's Witnesses said. Right before I shoved them off my porch. Traffic moved ahead another fifty feet.   
  
You just keep gettin' better with age. Like Limburger cheese. Lee reached out to fiddle with the radio, and Draco swatted at his hand.  
  
Stop that. Get to your point. He had his teeth gritted and a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, and was trying to think positive thoughts. He'd hired an anger management coach earlier this year to consult with the supervisors after the second director of personnel in a row had gone postal. He had received a private consultation after he had voiced his displeasure over the meeting starting a half hour late. The woman had said that he should count backwards from twenty and think positive thoughts to stay calm. He focused on an image of Lee's head crushed under the bus tires. Draco supposed positivity was relative.  
  
Traffic finally loosened somewhat now that they were past the crash, and Draco was able to make it onto the 110 headed towards Hollywood without cutting off too many poeple. It took him a bit father out of his way then the 60 or 10, but avoided some of the congestion. He swung over into the carpool lane. Might as well get some lemonade out of this lemon.  
  
Your father is alive.  
  
Draco's hands jerked on the wheel, bouncing a front tire off the concrete barrier. He over corrected, swerving dangerously close to the fast lane, but then got the car steadied again. Why would you think that?  
  
Because I've seen him, Lee said, and his tone had gone from light and teasing to a cold professionalism. I don't know exactly what happened behind closed doors, and I'm not sure I want to. But I have to ask, you ever see the body?  
  
he said softly. But he has to be dead.  
  
Well, you believe what you want to. But I'm telling you I'm not out here to visit Disneyland. You-Know-Who may be dead, but the Ministry is as busy as ever. And one of the things we're busy with is your daddy dearest. He's up to something, and I doubt it's anything he'll get a Nobel prize for.  
  
You've spent quite some time around Muggles.  
  
Yeah. Undercover shit, mostly.  
  
The Nobel prize reference gave you away. If Lucius is alive, He didn't call him father. He would _never_ call him father, why do I care?  
  
Because you're the one he wants to kill. Or at least, the first one. I have a feeling it's a pretty long list. He half turned in the seat so he was facing Draco, a serious expression on his face. Draco could just make him out in the corner of his eye, keeping his main attention fixed on avoiding the drivers who seemed to believe that using a turn signal was against their religion. Look, you sure as hell aren't as pure as the driven snow, but you could have made things a lot worse for us, and you didn't. You've been minding your own damn business out here, and honestly, we'd just as soon leave you to it. But something is going down, and it's going to be bad. Real bad, for everyone. Like it or not, you're involved.  
  
Involved how? Do I have to do anything? It was bad enough that everyone from his past seemed determined to waltz back into his life and have surreal conversations with him. Now he had to be _involved_. He hated involvement. It wasn't even a nice sounding word. Involve.  
  
No. Just keep on living your life in whatever twisted little way you see fit. It would be nice if you'd turn those letters you've been getting in to me though. I can give you a P.O. Box to drop them off at.   
  
The letters are from him? Draco couldn't keep his surprise from showing.  
  
Yeah. I don't know why though. Maybe it's all a mind game, or maybe he's just gone totally insane. Time will tell. Almost as though a switch had been flipped, Lee had gone back to his easygoing manner. Draco wondered what he had been doing all these years to gain the ability. It was a specialty rarely developed by normal people with happy little lives.  
  
Fine. I get anymore, I'll give them to you. By the way, are you coming home with me?  
  
Nope. Just dump me off at the first Metrolink station we go by.  
  
That will be coming up in about five miles. Do you mind if I ask you something?  
  
Depends on what you're asking. Might answer it, might not.  
  
Does Harry Potter work with your little...group?  
  
Lee was silent for a moment, and Draco began to wonder if he was going to get an answer. When he spoke, it was hesitantly. Harry...Harry kinda does his own thing. He was in tight up until the final battle, but then he just sort of...drifted off.   
  
So he wouldn't know about any of this?  
  
No. Got a reason for asking?  
  
Idle curiosity. The sign came up for Metrolink Station, Next Exit' and Draco began to move over lanes. Can I expect any more impromptu visits?  
  
Not unless shit hits the fan. This is good, I can walk the rest of the way. Draco pulled up to the curb just clear of the off ramp, and Lee slid out. He began to shut the door, then paused halfway. Oh, and Draco?  
  
  
  
You do get killed, I got dibs on the car. He flashed a startlingly white grinned, slammed the door hard enough to make Draco wince, and jogged off towards the station.  
  


++  
  


Draco had taken to spending the late night hours in his home office, on the off chance that Potter hadn't been a hallucination and might indeed return. He had also switched the security system off, so that Harry wouldn't accidentally trip it. Tonight, he had changed his suit for jeans and a fairly tacky old Fleetwood Mac concert t-shirt, and was sprawled out in his recliner, nose buried in the latest Stephen King novel. CNN provided just the right amount of background noise on the television. Marie had left a few hours earlier, saying she was going to visit a friend, which meant she as going to go shag Miguel, the gardener. He hadn't even managed to work up his usual surge of irritation over it, and she'd stormed off in a huff. She liked it when she could raise a reaction from him.   
  
Draco allowed his thoughts to drift. Potter had driven a bulldozer through the ordered Zen rock garden that was his life. It wasn't just the shock of seeing someone he'd never thought he'd see again, or of being able to have a serious conversation that involved magic. Lee had given him that, and the thought of Lee naked evoked much the same reaction in him as imaging Attorney General Ashcroft in the same condition. Not quite enough to drive a man to celibacy, but pretty damn close. No, Harry was another matter entirely.  
  
He had enjoyed seeing Harry Potter. Even now his thoughts continued to stray towards green eyes and lean hips, rewriting the meeting into a thousand infinitely more interesting possibilities. Thinking that perhaps he simply needed a good fuck to get things out of his system, he had swung by one of his favorite bars after work yesterday. Elusive Tranquillity was a spot where he always had good luck finding someone who was up for a casual swing. It had an unusually wide selection of drinks, and an atmosphere that wasn't as quite as cheesy as the name would suggest. Draco had only been there a couple hours when he'd realized he was only hitting on men with dark hair and glasses. After that, he had settled for drinking himself into oblivion.   
  
He folded a page corner down to mark his spot, and set the paperback on the end table. It was almost two in the morning, and he was due to go golfing in Temecula at nine. Traffic wouldn't be all that terrible, as at that hour everyone from Orange County and the Inland Empire would be headed towards the LA area, not away from it. Still, it was going to be a solid hour, hour and a half drive. Hopefully, he'd be driving _alone_ this time. If he was going to get any sleep in before leaving he'd better start now. Potter obviously wasn't going to show tonight.  
  
As if on cue from his thoughts, the doorbell rang. He bounded up to get it, slowing to a sedate walk and catching his breath a few feet before he reached the front door. A glimpse through the peephole confirmed his suspecions; it was Harry.  
  
he said calmly, as though he answered the door to wizards at godawful hours of the morning regularly.   
  
Good eve- er, morning Draco. May I come in? His entire demeanor was terribly polite, and Draco felt like someone had stolen a gentleman from some 19th century novel and transposed him for the Harry Potter he had once known. _Manners breed manners_, his aunt had used to say when he was little, and he felt himself adjusting his posture despite himself.  
  
Of course. The living room is to the right. he stepped back, allowing Harry to walk by him before closing the door and throwing the locks. Anything to drink?  
  
Harry shook his head, I'll be fine. When Draco returned from the kitchen with a beer for himself, he continued, Amazing what a difference the front door makes, isn't it? I was half convinced I was going to get a golf club upside the head the other night.  
  
Draco settled himself on the La-Z-Boy across from the sofa Harry was on, leaning back and throwing one leg over the arm rest. Well then. What sort of bombshell are you going to drop on me tonight? Find out the Lindbergh baby was behind the murders all along? Harry just looked blank, and Draco had to remind himself to keep the Muggle references to a minimum. It was odd to think that he, a Malfoy, one of the purest bred wizarding families around, was closer to being a Muggle then the Muggle-raised Potter. It was more then slightly disconcerting.  
  
Harry didn't waste any time getting to his point. I think I may have found a reason for the murders. Harry looked uncomfortable, and Draco was getting a bad feeling about the future of his day. Aw well, he hadn't wanted to go golfing anyway.  
  
he gestured for Harry to continue.  
  
It's part of a spell. A very, very dark one, that was supposedly lost a few thousand years ago. Whoever is behind this, wants to use it change what happened at the final battle. Bring the wizarding world into Voldemort's hands after all.  
  
Draco frowned. I imagine quite a few people still want that. Why is this lunatic any different from the rest?  
  
Because this lunatic is succeeding. Of the ten tasks that must be completed, our mystery wizard already has two down. According to the limited history I've been able to access, no one has gotten that far before. Harry was becoming more animated as he spoke, as though this was something that truly excited him. Then again, saving the world had always seemed to be Harry's thing. Maybe he got off on it.  
  
So, what can be done? You seem to be up on things, track this guy down.  
  
Well, there's a small problem. It can't be stopped from here. I'd have to be back where it all began, at the last battle, to keep things right. Besides, call it a hunch, but I think this may involve you.  
  
Draco had fulfilled his yearly quote of being involved'. It was time to get down to some serious being left the hell alone'. What am I supposed to do about it? Really Potter, if living in earthquake country has taught me anything, it's to not loose sleep over shit I can't help. It will happen or it won't, and that's that.  
  
You can go back and fix it. Harry said, settling back in the chair as he waited for Draco's reaction. It wasn't long in coming.  
  
You're _insane_. A complete raving nutter. I can't believe I let you in my house. How much lead paint did they feed you growing up?  
  
Well now. You're skeptical. I can understand that.  
  
At the risk of sounding too much like a Muggle, no _shit_ Sherlock.  
  
Harry grinned, his enthusiasm refusing to be muffled. There really is a way to do it. I know you don't believe me, I didn't believe it at first either, but it is possible.  
  
Draco got up and left momentarily, reemerging from the kitchen with a bottle of Gray Goose and a shot glass. This situation called for some serious intoxication. Enlighten me, he said, settling back down. Because there isn't any spell I know of that will go back further then a month. Well, at least not take you back in one piece anyway.  
  
Harry said, shaking his head. There is a spell. But-, he held up a hand to stall Draco's protest, it isn't one that would do _us_ any good. Unless you can think of ten people you wouldn't mind butchering.  
  
Again, I ask how?  
  
The Muggles may have come up with a way.  
  
Draco, uncertain of a way to combat such obvious insanity, merely sat and stared. He cleared his throat a few times, started to speak, then lapsed back into silence. Finally, after a minute, he managed a   
  
You think I'm insane, don't you?  
  
Didn't we already establish that? Draco threw back another shot of vodka, making an even half dozen. A few more, he mused, and Harry would start making sense.  
  
Harry grinned as though it all was a grand joke, and Draco was reminded of the worst two Weasleys, the twins. Harry looked like there was a Canary-Cream hidden somewhere in the works, and Draco was about to bite into it. I wouldn't have believed it myself, he said, getting up to pace the room, but then I met this Muggle in the train station. His voice, his whole manner conveyed an incredible exuberance, and Draco was forced to admit that he was particularly optimistic and motivated for a madman. They know how time works now...the whole passage of time is nothing but an illusion. Einstein said it first, The past present and future are only illusions, even if stubborn ones.' All time is equally real. We're in the now, but the past is still there. Do you know what that means? If time isn't fixed, if it isn't cast solid?   
  
Draco shook his head.   
  
It means, Harry said, coming to a stop facing Draco, that we can move within it. The past is still there, all we have to do is figure out how to reach it.  
  
Oh well then. If that's all, why don't we get right to it, Draco said, with an eye roll added to emphasize the sarcasm.  
  
You need some kind of wormhole to do it, Harry mused, and Draco got the impression he was talking mostly to himself at this point. Muggles haven't yet figured out how to create a stabilized artificial wormhole, and they can't pick up on the natural ones- they can be there and gone in an eye blink. But if you added magic into the mix you could do it, and on a small scale, without going out into space.  
  
Draco said carefully, supposing you have a brief bit of sanity hiding in that head of yours. Suppose we can go back, and do. Isn't that opening up the ultimate Pandora's box? What if we fuck things up and the situation is worse when we return?  
  
Harry shook his head. But we can't. We can't do something that is inconsistent with logic and the laws of physics. It's like trying to fly by flapping your arms - no matter how badly you want to, it won't happen. Even magic follows the laws of physics, although it's going to be a very, very long time before Muggle science develops to the point where they can understand _all_ the laws. We can't do anything that will prevent us from going back in time in the first place. If events don't play out exactly the same, we won't travel back, and then we couldn't have gone back and changed it in the first place, so it's still the same. We're just stopping him from changing it. Understand?  
  
I'm going to have to trust you on that one. He refilled his shot glass, and peered at Harry over the rim. This was going above and beyond merely being weird. The strangest part of all, was that his gut feeling was telling him to go with Harry. Or maybe it was the Vodka talking. He tossed back the shot. Suddenly, a light switched on in his mind. _We're just stopping him from changing it_. Wait a minute - we've gone from mystery wizard behind door number two doing a spell that can change things to a specific he' who is traveling back in time to change things. Pardon me for the blonde moment Holmes, but do you think you can go back over that deduction a bit more carefully?  
  
Harry's fidgeting had quieted somewhat, and he was back on the couch. Do you believe in seers?  
  
Draco moaned and massaged his temples. This conversation was giving him a headache. What kind of seer? If you mean the pretend gypsies who hung out in Diagon Alley when we were kids and told fortunes for five Knuts, then no. As for the legendary ones, I don't know. Wait until I meet one, then I'll get back to you on that.  
  
But you might believe...you aren't just dismissing it out of hand?  
  
His answer seemed to be very important to Harry, and Draco began to have a sinking feeling. _Oh no. He doesn't believe..._ You're a seer?  
  
Well, you said it not me. He almost seemed embarrassed. I have dreams, and they come true. What would you call me?  
  
Draco shook his head. _Insane, to start. _They were wondering too far off topic. Okay, setting reality on the shelf for a moment, and assuming you do have prophetic dreams, how is this tying in with your proposed Orwellian adventure? The time machine, he added when Harry looked confused.  
  
Well, I had a dream...  
  
Draco spent much of the next hour with his head in his hands, wishing desperately that he could just wake up and have the world return to normal. He was starting to understand what Lee had meant by Harry does his own thing. If it hadn't been for Jordan, Draco no doubt would have kicked Harry out on his ass after hearing your father and not dead used in the same sentence. But, if Harry didn't have access to any of the Ministry information, that left only the most terrifying possibility of all - Harry might actually be on to something.  
  
he said, interrupting, Let's see if I've been able to follow this. You saw in a dream that Lucius is alive. If Harry was surprised that Draco preferred to use a given name rather then acknowledge any relationship, he hid it well. Not only alive, but bent on killing me, going back in time and bringing the world under Voldemort's rule. _Then kill him and step into the limelight himself no doubt, _Draco thought_, _but kept the idea to himself.And, according to you, I have to be there or he will succeed?  
  
I think you've got the gist of it.  
  
Wonderful. Absolutely fucking wonderful. 


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Stupid Trivia of the Week - the time bits in this (sans magic) actually came out of Scientific American magazine. Yes folks, this is real science. Scary thought, huh? They had an article on how one could [theoretically] build a time machine. Very interesting reading for those who are of that bent. The current issue has a bit on quantum information science, including teleportation. Pretty darn cool. Qubit is now officially my favorite word. Qubit. Heh.  
A/N part duex: Even I don't know where this is going....it was *supposed* to be a nice, short PWP, but it sort of snowballed on me. If the time travel is really bothering you, take heart. It's not involved like most of you probably think it's involved.   
  
  


Chapter 4  
  
In which assorted things happen...  
  


Harry and Draco talked of less important things throughout the early morning hours, who married who, who was in jail, and other topics of interest to those coming together after a long time apart. Hermione Granger marrying Ron Weasley was no surprise, although the arrival of their first - a daughter named Meredith - only seven months after the wedding raised Draco's eyebrows. Granger had always seemed to him to be the prim and proper type.  
  
The Cho Chung and Seamus Finnigan match was even more of a shock. When he'd left Hogwarts Seamus and Neville Longbottom had been professing their everlasting love. Gold ring, crappy poetry, matching robes, the whole bit. He wasn't quite sure where the night went from there. Draco could hold his drink well, but a bottle of vodka tended to knock just about anyone on their arse, especially when it was combined with scotch and beer. He remembered saying yes to something, then he was looking at the ceiling...and things got iffy after that.  
  
He woke up still looking at the ceiling, except now it was a different one. He was stripped to his boxers and laid out in his office armchair, an afghan thrown over him. Draco briefly wondered at where his clothes had gone, but decided that drunk or not, somethings you would remember. Besides, he still had his boxers. He stumbled through the main bedroom on the way to the master bath to shower, pausing only to exchange the usual morning insult with Marie. She didn't look as though she'd been home all that long - he could still smell traces of Lancôme Miracle, which Miguel apparently bathed in. Draco didn't know any other way to apply cologne so that it would be strong enough to illicit a gag factor from twenty feet away.   
  
The shower was patterned after one that Draco had come across in an upscale hotel while on a business meeting in Vancouver. Even though the house had only been a couple years old at that point, he'd had the bathroom completely renovated as soon as he'd gotten home. Marie had since replaced the lovely gray marble with some ugly faux fresco thing, but she'd left the shower itself alone. Besides the dinner plate sized shower head, jets positioned at random intervals along the walls gave a jacuzzi effect, and at eight by eight square, there was no press for room. If Draco could only figure out a way to link his office and shower without having to look at the rest of the house, he would be in paradise.  
  
Since the golf game was out, his day was open. He choose a pair of jeans that made up for in softness what they lacked in appearance, and a hunter polo, and padded barefoot to the kitchen in search of breakfast. Or perhaps it was lunch now. Technically, since it was his first meal of the day, didn't it still count as breakfast, even though it was a little after eleven? In any case, he wanted bacon. His LA Times was on the corner table as usual, except that unlike as usual, someone was reading it. That someone was also eating his bacon.  
  
There's eggs in the pan on the stove, said Harry, I hope you don't mind, Marie said to help myself. She's much nicer then I expected.  
  
Is there any bacon left? Draco grabbed the orange juice, and added a dash of Scotch. Harry rasied an eyebrow, and he shrugged. Hair of the dog and all that. There was some bacon left, and just enough scrambled eggs to make a meal.  
  
Draco dove in without hesitation. These are good. Where'd you learn to cook?  
  
I'm surprised you can taste anything under the half bottle of kethcup you've got on it. My aunt and uncle used to make me cook breakfast for them. I prefer this way over magic, for some things.  
  
Huh. Marie's a bitch. She flirts with anyone I bring home, thinks if she can swing someone back to the het side of the force that it'll make her some kind of sex goddess. He snatched the Business section out of Harry's hands, who didn't seem to mind. He was staring at Draco with an eyebrow quirked in a near perfect arch.  
  
So, do you bring gay men home...often?   
  
No. I usually go to their place. He shoved another spoonful of eggs drowned in kethcup in his mouth, keeping eye contact with Harry. What had that coffee cup said? _Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with kethcup_. He liked that cup. Should have bought one.  
  
Ah. I see. I'll need a few days to arrange things. You will be able to leave your work if need be?   
  
_For what? _Draco thought, but then another memory kicked in. Time travel. Seers. It seemed so foolish, so fanatical an idea, and it had come up too quickly. _If an idea is obvious to you, then you can bet it's obvious to everyone else. Solid decisions tend to be just complicated enough to weed out the idiots_, he'd once told an investor. But, again there was that gut reaction to believe Potter. A little nagging voice that warned of trouble if he didn't. He nodded, You know where to reach me.  
  
Well then, I should probably be off. Harry folded the paper up neatly, and set his plate in the sink. I hope you don't mind if I'm terribly rude and leave the dishes...?  
  
Draco waved the concern off. The maid comes by at one. She'll get it. Any idea when you're going to disturb me again? The unsettled feeling was lingering, and Draco had the urge to toss off a few insults just for the hell of it. The morning was turning out to be entirely too domestic.   
  
No. Perhaps during the day next time. The late nights aren't agreeing with me. Good day then. Harry slipped soundlessly out the double glass doors, and paused on the brick patio. Then his outline blurred, puddling and reforming in a way that made Draco queasy just to watch. The calico cat now in Harry's place gave it's front paw one dainty lick, then bounded off into the cover of the Bougainvillea that bordered the property.  
  


++  


  
  
Draco had gone in search of his wand shortly after Harry's first visit, determined to brush up on his magic. He had found it the next day, buried behind Marie's old high school yearbooks in the laundry room cupboard. The wand had been wrapped in a tie that bore Slytherin colors, and Draco had simply stood holding it for a great long while. The memories of Hogwarts had come back in more vivid detail then he'd dreamed possible, and as he fingered the musty old cloth of the robe, he could hear the excited shouts of his teammates, and see the flash of gold as the snitch went flying by. It had been a long time since he'd last thought of Quidditch.  
  
If someone had asked, he wouldn't have hesitated to tell them that he had no emotional ties to his school years. But when he held his old belongings...faces had shifted through his mind, professors and friends alike, and he had been forced to swallow around the lump that was suddenly in his throat. Even Professor Snape, who hadn't been nearly as easy on Slytherin as the Gryffindors would have liked to believe, aroused a wave of sadness. Draco knew he'd retired to Wales after the final battle, but wondered what else had become of the man.  
  
Magic, like riding a bike, was never really forgotten once learned. That did not mean one could return to it after a twenty year absence and expect any degree of competency. After the dryer had gone skipping across the room singing God Save the Queen, Draco had swallowed his pride and gone back to square one.  
  
Now, after polishing off the rest of the bacon and eggs, Draco retreated to the guesthouse for his new daily ritual of magic practice. Marie would likely sleep until dark, and if any neighbor's saw anything out of the ordinary, they would simply assume it be one of the usual Muggle occurrences, like an exploding a meth lab. By the time the sun began to dip down below the Eucalyptus trees, he had made a great deal more progress. Like putting together a puzzle, each skill added to his repertoire laid the foundation for the next, and periods of frustration tended to be follow by stretches where everything flowed smoothly. _Soon_, he mused, while wrapping his wand back up in the old flannel shirt he now kept it hidden in, _I'll actually be able to visit a wizarding community without making a total fool of myself. _Somehow, the thought didn't bring the joy he had expected it to.  
_  
_

++  
  


Lee Jordan hated America. He hated the nice accent comments. He hated the obnoxious in-your-face attitude the Muggles all seemed to have. He hated everyone driving on the wrong side of the road. Most of all, he hated all the guns. If he had been in back in London, the man who had him cornered in the back of the market would probably have a knife out. Perhaps a club of some sort. Knives and clubs Lee could handle. The .38 leveled at his chest was a different matter entirely.  
  
His wand was tucked inside his shirt, as usual. The elder Mrs. Weasley had been kind enough to sew little hidden wand pockets in all his clothes before he left for America. It made the wand easy to carry, but not so easy to get out in a hurry. Lee supposed this was karmic pay back for breaking into the market, but then again, this was LA. The odds of someone else breaking into the exact same store as he was at the exact same time probably _were_ high.  
  
He kept both his hands on the shelf as he'd be told, and stared at his assailant, who stared back. Neither of them seemed quite sure what to do. Lee blinked. The gunman blinked. He sighed. A few more minutes of this, and somebody was going to have to get shot just to break up the boredom.  
  
Look, you can have the cash from the front. I just want to steal something from the back. Sound good? Lee took a chance, and lifted his hands from the shelf, making sure to keep them in plain sight. He kept every movement slow and steady, and tried his best to look harmless, although he wasn't quite sure what harmless looked like.   
  
I don't want to deal with no fucking police, the man spat, shifting slightly from foot to foot. Lee guessed him at twenty years old, maybe twenty-one. This probably wasn't his first felony, but he hadn't been at it long enough to be totally jaded about the whole affair either.  
  
Would it really be in my best interest to steal something and then call the police on you? I don't want to go to jail either, Lee said. He decided to press his luck, and stepped back. His gamble paid off, or perhaps the guy's arm was just getting tired. The man tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, relaxing somewhat.  
  
You sure talk funny for a black guy. Where you from anyway? East side?  
  
Yeah, far east side. Like across the ocean, he muttered, turning back to the job of opening the storage room door. After a moment, he heard footsteps, than a crash. Rather then waste time trying to simply pry it open, the would-be robber had shoved the cash register off of the counter. _Brilliant_, Lee thought. _He didn't even ask if I'd disabled the security system first_. It reminded him of a joke he'd heard in an Irish pub. Crime can be very profitable, but it requires at least five working brain cells to be pulled off successfully. Otherwise, you're better off joining the army.  
  
From the outside, this place looked like any other hispanic market, which is why Lee had been so shocked when he'd tracked his definitely very British mystery wizard here. After the fight in the used car lot, when Lee had blown his cover to Lucius Malfoy, Hermione had suggested, among other things, that he shift his focus from Lucius to the strange book that apparently had been worth killing for. He'd managed to get a tip on the whereabouts of the remaining unknown wizard that Lucius had met with that day, leading him to follow the older, brown haired man here. As luck would have it, the book had been in this man's possession. Yesterday, Lee had watched him come in here with the book and disappear into the back room with it, coming out some time later empty handed.  
  
Lee had assumed that all he would need to do was break in, take down the security cameras, walk in to the storage area, grab the book, and leave. He was starting to rethink that theory. Gringotts didn't even have as much protection as this damn door did. Lee had run through every opening and lock-breaking charm he knew, tried the Muggle route of lock-picking, cussed at it, and had even given it a solid kick. So far, all he had managed to do was chip the paint and hurt his foot.  
  
Inspiration hit, as it always did, with the force of a train wreck. He broke out into a grin that took up most of his face, and ran towards the front of the store. His partner in crime was bent over the broken register scooping up handfuls of quarters, evidently intent on getting every last penny he could out of his heist. Knocking him out was child's play. Lee grabbed the largest jar of pickled cactus he could spot, took a good hold, and swung it down as hard as he could manage. The other man dropped face down on the linoleum like a stone. Lee grabbed the gun out of his waistband, and jogged back over to the uncooperative door. Two shots blew the lock cleanly off. One would have probably sufficed, but no one had ever accused Lee of being a good shot.  
  
Another good kick, and the door swung open. He allowed himself to gloat for a brief moment, then kicked into action. The gunshots might have been heard and reported, and there was no telling when sleeping beauty would wake up. The room was a tangle of cleaning supplies, messy file cabinets, and unstocked goods. A dark wooden hope chest was tucked into the far left corner behind a stacked pallet of Tide laundry detergent. It's obvious age and quality made it stand out over the rest of the rooms contents, and Lee headed for it. This time his opening charm worked like, well, a charm.  
  
The chest was filled with various benign wizarding paraphernalia, spices and herbs and cauldrons in shapes and sizes. There was a large rectangular object wrapped in red velvet cloth nestled in the bottom, and Lee lifted it out carefully. He only had to unwrap a single corner to tell that he had what he was looking for. The book went into the knapsack he had brought for it, and a simple personal cleaning charm took care of any fingerprints. The gun he kept, as it might come in handy later. Lee felt the pulse of the unconscious guy, just to double check that he hadn't killed him, and Disapparted just as first police car arrived.  
  


++  
  


After much begging, pleading and promises of baked goods, Lee had managed to weasel an extra allowance out of Hermione. This had allowed him to move up into a moderately trashy motel, as opposed to the extremely trashy one he had been in before. This one had a better shower, fewer unidentifiable stains on the mattress, and while he had to listen to the honeymooners in the next room getting their groove on at night, it was still better then the prostitution busts he'd overheard while in the old room.  
  
Lee double checked the silence and muggle-repelling charms he'd put around the perimeter, leaving his prize and the gun securely wrapped and in the book bag until he was absolutely sure that no one, by magic or other means, would be able to witness anything. Then, he carefully, oh so carefully began to unwrap the book. With your ordinary, run of the mill magic the spell itself might end up screwing you over, but you could at least handle the books and potion ingredients without fear. Well, unless what you were doing involved Hagrid, but that was another case. With the dark arts though, even the damn book could kill you, never mind the spell. This wasn't Lee's area of expertise, and he couldn't keep the fine tremble from reaching his hands. For safety's sake, he kept the velvet between his hands and the bottom of the book and he slowly drew the soft covering clear of the book itself.  
  
He'd been half afraid that the book would be written in some obscure language, and that he'd have to go all the way back home to have it translated. The title though, was written in English. Old English, but readable none the less. Reading and understanding were two different things. He read it front wards and back, even flipping the book around and reading it upside down. He understood each work separately, but as soon as he tried to put them together, the idea in his head dissolved into muck. He wasted a half hour before it dawned on his that this was probably some obscure form of protection spell, and he promptly got mione on the phone for help.  
  
she said after he'd explained the situation.  
  
Uh-oh _what_? Last time you said uh-oh' my pants were set on fire, remember? In the background, Lee could hers the frantic shuffling of papers, and could easily imagine mione diving through the cocoon of books she surrounded herself with, flipping pages with uncanny speed as she searched for answers. She still couldn't fly a broom worth a damn, but give her a book and a question and she turned into such an efficient machine that even the Ministry house-elves (unionized and paid living wage, of course) marveled at her ability.  
  
I think I found the answer, but I'm not sure I like it.  
  
Just tell me   
  
She sighed. The book has to be keyed into it's owner to be understandable. For anyone else, all the words are just gibberish. It can only have one owner at a time, and it either has to be freely given....or the old owner killed.  
  
So _that's_ why Malfoy killed that guy. Course, this kind of fucks me over. Think anyone back there can break the charm?  
  
Yes, but doing so will destroy the book.  
  
he mumbled, starting to rewrap the book. If he couldn't read it, might as well put it up. The thing was starting to give him the jeebies.  
  
It looks like we may have a loophole though. You're _sure_ Lucius is the owner now?  
  
Sure as I can be, under the circumstances.  
  
A pause, and some more flipping of pages. Well, it says here that full blood of the Rightful Master' may also read the book. Stop me if I'm wrong, but I think that means Draco.  
  
Destroying the book may be a good option after all.  
  
Hermione mock scolded. He's not _that_ bad. Do try to get in touch with him soon. Until we get that book decoded there isn't any telling what sort of timetable we have to work with. As far as I know, the world is ending tomorrow.  
  
A ray of sunshine as usual   
  
Sorry. I'll leave you to your work now. Just try not to commit any more felonies, please?  
  
He laughed. I'll see what I can do. No guarantees though. This whole thing is getting weird. Lee tossed the phone back on the bedside table, and tucked the book back into the knapsack. He'd face ferret-boy tomorrow. Tonight, he just needed to sleep.


End file.
